I Am a Flower Girl
by Unicadia
Summary: The tale of how Combeferre met his wife. Cameos by Courfeyrac, Joly, and Musichetta. K-plus for some violence at the beginning.


**Thanks to OfBayonetsAndMusicBoxes for the idea for this story! This is a prequel to my other Les Miz fics which mention Combeferre and his wife, Adelaide, specifically _Guardian Angel, So the Angels Can Hear You,_ and _The Brothers_. Dedicated to all Combeferre/Adelaide fans I may have inadvertently created.**

 **Much love,**

 **Unicadia**

* * *

"Thank you, mademoiselle," the young student said to me, smiling as he deposited three sous into my hand. "But do you have something to cover them with? My allergies, you see."

I found a cloth for him to cover the bouquet with, and he pranced away, his cheeks rosy with pleasure. Some lovely lady would be very happy.

I twirled the three sous in my hand as the man left, feeling vaguely sad, before stuffing them into my apron. _Tonight is the ball,_ I reminded myself. Straightening, I wiped my eyes and pulled my flower cart out from the closely packed stalls which lined the university campus. The crowds faded into the twilight; no more customers tonight. I pushed the cart out into the street, the back left wheel catching on a cobblestone again. I jerked the cart back and forth, trying to loose it.

Someone knocked into me from behind, and I toppled forward, scraping my cheek. Rough hands pushed me over and dug into my apron pocket. I screamed and beat at the thief, but my thin, weak arms fell heedlessly on my attacker.

Suddenly, he fell beside me as another man came up and shoved him. "Leave the lady alone!" he shouted. My rescuer wrenched the thief up by his collar, extracted the sous, and released him. The thief ran away with a curse.

Relief flooded me, but I rolled over and wept into the cobblestones.

"Mademoiselle . . . are you all right?" came a gentle voice.

I lay still a moment, then made to get up, but strong arms grasped my hands and heaved me to my feet. I wobbled a little and raised my eyes. A blond young man, probably a student judging by his clothing, with sleepy, soft blue eyes, bent over me, smiling. I curtsied in my politest manner. "Thank you, monsieur." I swallowed. I was still shaking. I turned to leave, but he still held my hand.

"The pleasure was mine," the man said. He lifted my hand up to his mouth. Gentle lips caressed the back of my hand. Then he turned away. I watched him go, a faint breeze ruffling his hair. I stood there a while, my hand still extended, wondering what had happened.

That evening, I went over to my friend, Genevieve's, house. She was letting me borrow the blue silk gown she had been saving for her dowry, though she was as poor as I. "Are you sure this will work, Genevieve?" I asked her, gazing down at the dress swirling around me. Never had anything I worn felt so light and soft. "Maybe I shouldn't go. This is too crazy. No one will believe I'm bourgeois."

"Trust me. You deserve this one night, Adelaide." Genevieve kissed my cheek. "Go have a ball."

I walked to the Salon de Fêtes, self-conscious of my every move. I wore no jewelry and my shoes were the plain, peasant ones I wore every day. When I entered the golden, glittering hall of the salon, I almost turned around. I did not belong here. I was no Cinderella. Men and women, decked out in silks, swirled around the dance floor. An orchestra played a waltz. I slipped in, hoping I wouldn't be noticed.

I took a glass of champagne from the refreshment table and sank into one of the chairs lining the walls. I wanted to remember every minute of this golden night. My one night pretending I was something more than a poor flower vendor.

They were all beautiful – but a couple in the middle of the dance floor was my favorite. The young man happened to be my last customer of the day, the young man with the allergies. His partner was lovely, a delicate girl with golden hair and a devilish smile. They followed each other's movements with such precision and grace you could almost forget they were two separate people. The other couples were dancing; these two were dancing life, breath, vitality . . . And I could see something in their faces; a connection, a oneness, a harmony. During a pause in the dancing, the young man drew the lady close to him and kissed her so tenderly on the lips that I felt jealous all of a sudden. I wanted someone to kiss me like that . . .

I felt lonely.

I got up, and wandered along the edge of dancers. Then I ran into someone.

I jumped and whirled around. "Beg pardon," I said, on the verge of curtsying when I found myself looking into the soft blue eyes of the young man who had rescued me earlier that day. I gasped and stumbled back.

"Wait, mademoiselle!" he said, and I did. I wondered if he recognized me. Another man, a little younger than him, stood close by, watching me with the same intent gaze as his. "Mademoiselle, this is André Courfeyrac, my friend," said my rescuer, motioning to his companion. André Courfeyrac smiled at me and I blushed. "He wants to dance with you."

I blinked, wondering if I heard right. But André extended his arm and took my hand, kissing it oh-so-gently, and my blush deepened. "Please," he said.

"I – I don't know how to dance," I whispered. How could I tell them I wasn't bourgeois?

"Nonsense," André laughed. "The gavotte is easy."

I said nothing, but let him lead me out to the other dancers in a dream.

The gavotte was not easy. But André just kept laughing as I continually stepped on his feet.

"What's your name?" he asked as we spun around.

"Adelaide Chénier," I replied, breathless.

"You look lovely in blue, Mademoiselle Chénier."

I blushed again. "Thank you."

When the music ended, André took me back to his friend. My rescuer smiled down at me. "May I have this next dance?"

His beautiful blue eyes beckoned to me. I felt my heart melt inside my chest and heard myself say, "Yes."

He extended his hand and I took it, shaking a little. He led me out and put his other hand around my waist, but with the gentlest touch, like I was a butterfly. I fumbled with my left hand a while before he placed it on his shoulder. This next dance was a waltz, which I knew a little of, since Genevieve showed me some steps once.

"I'm sorry," he said after a little bit. "May I know the name of the lady I have the pleasure of dancing with?"

"Adelaide Chénier."

"I'm Etienne Combeferre."

I smiled. What a lovely name.

Something happened as we danced, something that filled the lonely hole I felt earlier. I didn't know what it was, but I felt drawn to Etienne, to his eyes, to his gentleness, when I had encountered only roughness and cruelty in my life.

The waltz ended all too soon. It was late, and I needed to return home. I couldn't lose Etienne, though. I felt that if I never saw him again, I would lose all gentleness and kindness and my world would remain harsh and gray. But he needed to hear the truth, which might make me lose him. I clung to Etienne's arms, staring at the tiled floor. "Monsieur Combeferre-"

"Etienne."

"Etienne, I'm – I'm not a bourgeois. I'm a peasant girl. I'm the girl with the flower cart you rescued earlier this evening." Tears pricked my eyes.

He laughed, low and sweet. "I know that, Mademoiselle Adelaide." And he kissed my cheek.


End file.
